Ghost's of the Past
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: John knew there was something odd about 221B. Not wrong, just... odd. He couldn't figure it out until he went into his room for the first time. T for a bit of strong language in chapter three.
1. A Study in Pink: Meeting

John had known as soon as he stepped into 221B that there was something off about the whole place. Not bad, per se, just off. He found out what that was once he walked into his room for the first time after the Pink case.

First off, there was an old journal in the Victorian era desk that no one had seemed to see. This wouldn't have bothered him except when he turned to the first page there was his name in flourished cursive handwriting that looked nothing like his own. He went on further, eyes widening as he read. A crime syndicate, Richenbach falls, and something about their home address. That was all he could take in before he passed out on the floor.

When he woke up there was a rather posh voice above him (not Sherlock's) asking if he was all right.

Hazel eyes opened slowly to meet a rather startling icy blue. That was hovering above him. And mildly translucent.

"What the bloody hell?" He all but shouted, scrambling away. Sherlock didn't hear, or pretended not to hear, because there was no sound from downstairs.

The man in front of him blinked. He was older, probably mid fifties or sixties, in classic Victorian attire. His blond hair has strips of grey and there was a distinct world weary look to his tanned face. Oh, and John could see right through the bloke. Well, not right through, but he could definitely see the wall through the man's head.

"So you can see me?" He asked, voice tinged with a mild Scottish brogue. He seemed genuinely surprised by the fact.

"Of course I can bloody see you!" John exclaimed. "Now who the hell are you?" The man cocked his head to one side, hands limp over his crossed legs.

"Doctor John Watson. And you?"

Silence.

"Doctor John Watson…" John replied slowly, staring at the doctor before him. "Are you dead?"

"Yes. Afterlife was a dreadful place. I decided to come back home instead." He chuckled lightly. "I'm surprised Holmes isn't here."

John swallowed convulsively, eyes faring the risk of popping out of his skull with how wide they were. "Holmes as in Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. "Please, please tell me the answer is no."

"Terribly sorry Doctor Watson," the ghost said, his face apologetic. "But the answer is yes."

John fainted again.

{][][}

"Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson?"

"Hmmm…"

"Ah. Your awake then, Doctor."

"Yes, I'm bloody awake. Just call me John.

"All right, John."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Holmes left about an hour ago. Something about Inspector Lestrade."

"DI."

"What?"

"The title is Detective Inspector now, commonly known as a DI."

"I see."

"…"

"I suppose your curious."

"Very."

"What do you want to know?"

"You said you knew a Sherlock Holmes. Describe him for me."

"Mad. A genius. Worlds only consulting detective."

"That's it?"

"I assumed you wanted the short version."

"Well, yes…"

"Then what is the problem?

"…Never mind. What year did you die?"

"Hm. 1924, I think. I was fifty-six."

"And Holmes?"

"Two years later, in Sussex. He retired early."

"Any siblings?"

"Mycroft Holmes, as far as I'm aware. He isn't here too, is he?"

"Here too?"

"Apparently, there are certain things we needed to do. In this time period. History has a way or re-writing itself."

"Oh…kay. Yes, Mycroft is here."

"Has he kidnapped you yet? He did as soon as we finished the Scarlet case."

"Yes. Scarlet case?"

"A Study in Scarlet. I can't count how many times Holmes berated me on my romanticism."

"We actually just finished a case. Serial killer cabbie."

"History does re-write itself then. What did the dead man carve in the floor?"

"Dead man? No, woman. "Reporter, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink," to quote. She was writing Rachel."

A laugh.

"Rachel? That's what Scotland Yard thought. It was actually meant to be rache, the German word for-"

"-Revenge."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Anderson told us. Sherlock slammed the door in his face."

"That does sound like Sherlock."

"So, uh. What now?"

"I think I'll be going. Sherlock finally crossed over, so the afterlife might not be so boring."

"Oh…"

"Oh, and write up the case. A Study in Pink sounds fitting."

"Will you drop by?"

"Of course!" Cried he. "Who else would give you writing advice?"

"Okay. Why'd you stay in the first place though?"

"Well, someone needed to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"Read the Richenbach case in my journal, John."

"W-why?"

"So you aren't shocked by death."

With that, John H. Watson of the nineteenth century was gone.

{][**End?**][}

**A/N: Wow! I'm just on a writing streak, aren't I? This is starting to feel weird. Aw well, it's fun.**

**There may or may not be a part two to this, I'm not sure. We shall see.**

**~Piki :B**


	2. The Blind Banker: John and Watson

It was almost a month before John met up with his past self again. He was tired -exhausted even- and the only sleep he'd gotten was his first day at the clinic. Sarah was back home and safe, if not a bit shaken up, and Sherlock was all but passed out on the couch. John had every intention of force feeding him the next morning. After he slept, of course.

"Tiring case?" The familiar Scottish-tinted voice said beside him. "Holmes is asleep, so I assume so."

John turned over from his spot on the bed, glaring at the dead man before him. Watson hovered just above the desk, hands laying in his lap without though and he glanced at the door every few moments.

Finally, he nodded, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Yes, a bloody tiring case. Can you come by tomorrow? After I've had a good twelve hours of sleep?" Watson snorted.

"Doubtful at best. Explain it to me."

John blinked.

"What?"

The good doctor just stared on, blue eyes piercing in the low light and, if John didn't know any better, actually glowing.

"Explain. It. To. Me." Watson said again. "The case, I mean. Explain it to me, like you'd be writing your blog." John blinked again.

"Why the _hell _would I do that?"

There was a moment, just a brief one, when all was quiet. Watson had that sort of condescending smirk on his face that John had become far too accustomed to. John's glare intensified, if only slightly.

Another moment, and Watson threw back his head and laughed. "Well, your writing up the cases now, aren't you?" He asked. "I'd like to get the gist of them since I can't read the blog myself. A title at least!"

John stopped, running a hand over his face.

"The Blind Banker." He said at last.

"Pardon?"

"I'm calling it The Blink Banker."

Watson nodded, arms crossed over his chest. "Okay. Why?"

"The paint."

"The what?"

"The paint. The spray paint. It was over the painting of the founders eyes. A blind banker. And the fact that the banks security was a bit lacking."

"Good. Very good. Holmes will-"

"Call him Sherlock, for God's sake."

"What?"

"Call him Sherlock, not Holmes. My head is already foggy, and I'm having trouble discerning whether your talking about your Holmes or mine."

"Got it."

"You were saying?"

"Nothing. Just that Sherlock is going to keep getting on you about this."

"Oh, I know. Still hasn't confronted me on the Study in Pink thing."

"Anyway, need to get going."

"Need?"

"Things can still explode in the afterlife."

"Ah. I get ya. Good bye, Watson."

Watson smiled. Something between a pitying look and one of pride.

"Good bye, John."


	3. The Great Game: He'll Be Back

A week. It took a week before John and Sherlock could go back to their apartment after the whole pool business. They were both relatively unscathed. John got a bit of shrapnel in his shoulder, and Sherlock got shot in the leg and would have a limp for a about a month or so, but they were fine.

The first thing he did was go up to his room, opened up his laptop, and typed. Every single detail except for the Bruce-Partington plans, and even then he gave vague references. He just needed to get it _out_. Out of his head, out of his body. Get rid of all the nervous tension building and building until it made him want to explode. Almost dying can do that to someone.

By the time he was finished it hadn't even been an hour, with the rate he was going. Not many people knew, but he could type up to ninety words a minute., he just didn't. He saved the word document, shutting the laptop with a resounding snap and sighing. It was out in the open, at least. Mycroft would no doubt read it and censor what was necessary within the next few minutes, but at least it was out there. With that thought firmly planted in his mind, John turned around. Who else would he see but himself?

Watson, as usual, was not touching anything in the room in general (which John had mean to ask about last time). He was standing for once, and John was disgruntled to find he was around Sherlock's height, if not a few inches shorter even hovering off the ground. For once he didn't have that huge grin on his face. If anything he looked… scared. John would have said pale, but it was impossible for a ghost to be more pale. It was just a trick of the light.

"Moriarty?" The word is so quiet, uttered into the suddenly thick air. It's stifling, seeming to trap even sounds in its midst. John tugged at the collar of his jumper, trying to get air into his lungs.

"Moriarty." He agrees, just as quiet. It's a miracle that Watson even hears him. But then, with death comes heightened senses, including hearing. Actually, hearing most of all. So one can disappear as soon as they hear a mortal coming. Not that John knew that.

It takes a moment, but then Watson reacted. He let out a heavy sigh, plopping down on the bed (still hovering just above it), head in his hands. His whole body trembled a one hand ran through grey hair. He took a deep, shuddering breath despite being rather dead, icy blue eyes piercing into John's. John's mind flashed, briefly, to Richenbach. Images that had been created in his mind of Holmes seemingly going over the falls, of Moriarty. The terrifying thought of Sherlock having to fake his own death, or worse, actually dying and John not being able to stop it. He shuddered uncontrollably, arms wrapping around his chest.

"This could end very, very badly." Watson muttered, as though neither of them knew that already. He corrected himself, "no, it's already going badly. What I mean is that it could get worse. Much, much worse." He looked up, face drawn and stress lines clearly showing on his face. "Did you see him?"

Suddenly, like a dormant volcano, John exploded.

"Of course we bloody saw him!" He shouted, hand balling into fists at his side. "He put the damn semtex on me himself, fucking _taunted_ us with the fact that he could have sniper's kill us at any moment he wanted! Yes, we fucking saw him!"

John panted, shoulders drooping in exhaustion from the sudden release of pent up anger and fear. Writing, as it seemed, was not as good an outlet as Ella seemed to rave.

The sudden _step-tap_ rhythm of a cane came up the stairs, and the color suddenly drained from John's face. He collapsed in his chair, rubbing his forehead wearily as a voice wafted from down the stairs.

"John?" Sherlock called, voice almost what one would call tentative. "John, are you all right?"

With an understanding look, Watson glanced over to the door just as I slammed open. Obviously Sherlock was on the other side, wielding the cane like a fencer held a sword. It clattered on the ground the second he saw Watson on the bed, mildly see through, grey and glowing. Just slightly, of course. A dim ray of light that just emanated from the dead.

After a long, long moment of the cane settling down, Sherlock gulped. "Wh-who are you? _What_ are you?" It was the first time John heard his flatemate stutter. Certainly not the last, but the first was always the most shocking.

Watson stood, back straight as he brought himself to his full height. John, in some back corner of his mind, wondered if he looked as intimidating when he did the same.

"I," the spirit began, voice authorotive in that "Captain Watson" tone. "Am the former tenant of this flat and past self of your friend. I have lived in this flat for over one hundred years, and I know all about you. More than you will ever know." He paused, eye narrowing just slightly. "I am Doctor John H. Watson, former army soldier serving in Afghanistan and current apparition meant to make sure you two don't kill yourselves."

Sherlock stared.

Watson didn't even blink, not that he needed to.

John just sighed.

"I've been talking with him after cases since we met." He explained. "When I found his journal in the desk. He's basically a past version of me. God help Victorian England, but there's a past you too."

"Ah." Sherlock said, still stunned. "Why didn't you tell me?" He sounded just a bit… hurt. Not really, but with Sherlock that was immense. Both doctor's noticed, wincing slightly at the tone.

It was Watson who answered. "I'm only here to check up on you two, maybe give a bit of writing advice." He glanced at the clock. "And I really should be going about now. Holmes is expecting me back soon."

"H-Holmes?" Sherlock still seemed a bit shocked about the whole thing.

"Yes, the other you!" Watson replied, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Goodbye John, Sherlock." He nodded, the worry lines still creased in his forehead, and left.

Sherlock frowned, shoulders sagging. "Damn," the consulting detective muttered, picking his cane off the floor. "I had questions."

John shrugged. "He'll be back after our next case."

{][][}

**A/N: Ush. This one was a nightmare. Big thanks to my loyal reviewer jenamy for helping me out. Seriously, thanks.**

**Yay! Last part! :D I'm not sure if I'm happy with it, but it's at least out there.**

**~Piki :B**


End file.
